The Philosopher winced. The expression “got grit” wounded his sensitive ears. It was so rough—so unscholarly.
“Grit,” he remarked suavely, “I suppose implies the spirit which impels a man to fight for a country not his own and to kill as many men as he can of a nation which has never done him any personal harm.”
“You can put it that way,” said Jack’s father, “if you like! There’s all sorts of ways of saying a thing—and that’s your way.”
He gave vent to a sound between a chuckle and a snort. It might have meant amusement or contempt, or both.
The Philosopher eyed him meditatively.
“Yes, that is my way,” he agreed. “I confess I have no sympathy with the war fever. I dislike sheep tendencies in men. I do not admire their blind obedience to the order of a possibly stupid government. It shows that there is no originality of thought or character among them. A few bold and independent men could stop war altogether.”
“Well, I differ from you, sir,” said Jack’s father. “I don’t think all the saints that were ever calendared could prevent war. Why, everything in nature fights, from birth to death! It’s all a battle. Birds, beasts, insects,—even trees fight for room to expand. A good struggle against wind and tide makes the voyage worth while.”
The Sentimentalist smiled.
“I think so too!” she gently ventured to say. “Life would be so dull and monotonous without some sort of contest and opposition.”
The Philosopher bent an indulgent glance upon her.